


The Phantom(s) of the Grid Picnics

by mercuryhatter



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: COLLEGE THEATER AU??, Gen, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:55:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/pseuds/mercuryhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley is the stage manager, Aziraphale is an annoyingly cheerful lighting designer, together it is their mission to land as many crumbs in the various hairdos of the four principal actors as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Phantom(s) of the Grid Picnics

Aziraphale was far too cheerful, wore far too much tartan for a tech, and despite being one of the most talented lighting designers Crowley had worked with, had this extremely unfortunate tendency to miss cues because he was too absorbed in his book to be paying attention to his headset. He hadn’t yet done this during an actual show, but the amount of times it happened during rehearsals was less than wonderful for Crowley’s blood pressure. By all reason, Crowley should despise Aziraphale in the cool and professional yet incredibly spiteful way he despised freshmen, pit violinists, and people who talked in the wings.

 

Instead, he regularly had picnics in the grid with that deplorable specimen of a lighting designer, and actually enjoyed them.[1: Crowley made it a point to enjoy very few things in public. It wasn’t good for his image to be caught enjoying things, unless those things involved terrorizing people, waving clipboards at them, or both.]

 

“Twenty points,” Crowley murmured, his lip curling in pleasure as he watched his bit of cracker land squarely in Scarlett’s absurd Carlotta hairdo. Aziraphale dutifully marked the score on a corner of Crowley’s clipboard, then took his own aim at Weiss’s hair, set in curls for Christine.

 

“Ten points— oh dear.” Aziraphale covered his mouth with a perfectly manicured hand. His aim had gone wide and his crumb fallen onto the shoulder of Dee’s Phantom cape. Crowley looked at him in awe. Aziraphale returned the look with utter terror as Dee’s hand came up slowly, measuredly, to brush the crumb from zir cape. Just as deliberately, ze turned zir head to stare straight into Aziraphale’s soul, despite the fact that ze couldn’t possibly have seen his physical body nor any of its metaphysical accoutrement through the stage lights. Oblivious to his companion’s predicament, Crowley noted two hundred points in Aziraphale’s column.

 

“You may wake up tomorrow with your soul sucked out of your body and cast into purgatory for eternity, but I’m fairly certain you’ve won the game,” he whispered, hiding a snicker. Aziraphale just looked at him miserably, murmuring _I’m going to die_  into his hands.

 

Crowley’s phone buzzed an alarm in his pocket and he frowned down at it, hoping to get it to change its mind by pure force of will.[2: This might have actually worked if it weren’t Anathema Device, costumer, librarian, and possessor of supernatural abilities far beyond her prowess with card catalogs, calling the phone.] Resigned, Crowley touched a finger to the Bluetooth attachment that some suspected was permanently welded into his ear canal.

 

“What? How is that even possible, final measurements were supposed to be taken four days ago!— Oh, Weiss, well, it would be.— No, they’re onstage now.— Well, I would, wouldn’t I, only Dr. Luc’s blown another gasket over the score and is making the entire cast stand onstage while he and Dr. Michaels have it out.— Oh really, then why don’t you tell Dr. Michaels you need one of her actors right now?— Wait, really? Anathema I really don’t think that’s— oh. Well. Have fun then.” Crowley hung up, shaking his head.

 

“I don’t know why I continue to be surprised at her,” he mumbled, leaning on Aziraphale. “I think Anathema’s going to ask Dr. Michaels if she can borrow Weiss for their measurements,” he clarified at Aziraphale’s questioning look. “She said she was getting them one way or another; I’m not entirely sure what she means by that.”

 

“Really? Right now?” Aziraphale looked impressed when Crowley nodded confirmation. Sure enough, after a few minutes Anathema walked right onto the stage, measuring tape around her neck, and stepped behind Weiss, proceeding to pose them like a doll for several minutes while she wrapped the measuring tape in various places and dictated the results to a terrified assistant. This done, she nodded, whapped Weiss on the back of the head, whispered what appeared to be a murmured threat, and left the stage with her assistant in tow.

 

“Smooth,” Crowley conceded. “She’s never going to let me forget that I didn’t think of that first. Say, how many points did we say Dr. Michaels’ hair is worth…?”

 

“Just twenty, she’s completely oblivious to anything not directly related to the show,” Aziraphale said, consulting their ever-growing page of rules and points designations. “The conductor’s podium is fifty, though.”

 

“I feel like that one should be higher,” Crowley mused, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he took aim.

  
“You lose points for the inevitable twenty-minute delay in rehearsal when Dr. Luc notices and throws a fit,” Aziraphale explained, landing a crumb on Sable’s waistcoat. “Twenty-five.”


End file.
